upon cracked and narrowed streets
by bottledlogic
Summary: Of soldiers, spies, and unexpected educational encounters. (Or, five things Steve learns about Maria, and one he wishes he hadn't.)
1. still

**a/n**: set post-_avengers_. since i don't know how long this is going to take, who knows what'll happen after _age of ultron_...

* * *

**upon cracked and narrowed streets**

* * *

**i. still**

Maria Hill comes into the world, met with cries from all sides.

The midwife cradles her – cradles her as her mother breathes her last; as her father yells and pleads, a face of thunder that she can't ever erase; as the doctors shout for help among the shriek of machines; as she herself announces her presence to a room preoccupied with the prone figure on the table – and hums a lullaby, a haunted singing that cuts through the chaos.

(She'll later find out the exact lullaby – face black and blue as a reward – and she'll experimentally hum it to herself in the confines of her room.)

Chaos comes with sound, she learns. It's not that she's scared of disorder and such (no, she is _fearless_); rather, it's that she'll always find more in the blank spaces in between.

Stuff that goes unsaid… well, you know.

...

Steve Rogers is born, and there is little fanfare and no sound at all.

(Breathing problems, they said. It's funny how things turn out.)

...

It is midnight, and her father is downstairs with a bottle for company.

She is eight and her skinny knees are cold and sore from the hardwood floor. She is eight and she presses her hands together and whispers an innocent prayer; hoping with the conviction of a child whose belief in the world is only fractionally dented, hoping like a child for an unequivocal reply from some being she cannot see.

Thirteen years later (her Marines uniform still clinging to her), when Nicholas J. Fury asks her what S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for, she looks him in the eye (past the eyepatch) and blinks once before answering. Her voice doesn't waver and Fury smirks slightly and nods, signs the form, and shakes her hand.

Seven and a half years after that, when he promotes her to his right hand, he asks her again. She stares and brusquely tells him that her answer hasn't changed.

It shouldn't, and she _can't_.

...

He's slightly more preoccupied with the currently invisible and floating ship in the sky, than the brunette standing in the middle of the expansive bridge smoothly giving orders to the dozens of agents milling around.

_Slightly_.

Which is strange when he thinks about it, because that's really not what happened seventy years ago, and he's not _that_ old, and goddammit, it's hard when everything changes so quickly. He still remembers the piercing attention that _her_ voice brought; precise notes and the almost imperceptible hints of frustration slicing through the air of misogyny.

He hands Fury the ten dollars, looks around and nearly misses catching her eye. She looks intently at him and raises an eyebrow, before turning her focus back to the scene around her.

And hours and hours later, like before, she almost slips his mind.

Because after Manhattan, after the Chitauri carcasses fall from the sky, after shawarma, after they hand over Loki to Thor and Asgard, he finds himself on his bike travelling wherever he wants, finally free. It's not until his new phone beeps with a new message, that he pulls over and stops. He frowns at the unfamiliar screen before finally locating his messages.

_Have fun, Captain_._ – N :)_

Mentally slapping himself and cursing his self-absorption, he tucks the offending device away, climbs back on the bike, and heads back in the direction he came from.

(It _has_ been seventy years, but honestly, he tells himself he should know better.)

...

The helicarrier is still a mess, and the World Security Council are still politically-motivated idiots.

(Also, Fury is a fucking bastard.

Phil would like his playing cards back now, thank you.)

The Avengers are god-knows-where, and frankly, she doesn't give a damn. With the exception of Romanoff and Barton, she doesn't want to think about Fury's future plans for his motley crew of superheroes, no matter how much he pushes.

So she organises the clean-up teams for the streets of Manhattan, organises the funerals for the fallen agents, organises the engineers and the scientists to repair the helicarrier, oversees the training program for new recruits (there's now an _extra-terrestrial_ component) with Sitwell, and alternates with May to sit next to Coulson in his bed during the early hours of the morning.

And it's after these early hour visits that she frequents the gym that no one uses; small and basic and tucked away behind the armoury. She punches and kicks the bag over and over, and doesn't imagine anyone's face because that would be _wrong_.

(These are things she also doesn't do:

She doesn't hit until her knuckles are red raw.  
Her shoulders don't shake from sheer exhaustion.  
She doesn't hurl her gloves across the room in anger.

She doesn't scream.)

Face red and heart pounding, she breathes out slowly, holds the bag still and rests her forehead against the rough material.

Counts.

Lets go.

(_Tries to, anyway._)

(And on any other day she would, but today, she doesn't hear the footsteps behind her.)

...

His mother taught him it was rude to stare. And really, he does his utmost not to.

_But_.

He's curious.

He knows that the gym is rarely used (it's why he picked it), so when he spies someone brutally attacking the bag – (_unbridled_) – he watches, mesmerised. His eyes dart back and forth, tracking the fluidity of the movements.

There is no gradual cessation of movement; it is abrupt and fast, and he is acutely aware of the sudden silence punctuated only by her wracked breaths.

He holds his own, willing himself to _move away_ – he also knows a thing or two about respect – move away quietly, back into the shadows.

...

He manages to catch her in the dining hall, slides behind her in the lunch line. He's thinking – overthinking, more like; for someone who likes to be prepared, he's surprisingly _not_ in this particular moment – of what to say when she interrupts the turning cogs in his head.

"Captain Rogers."

It's nothing more than a polite greeting, but still, her low and cool voice is startling. It occurs to him that it's the first time she's directly spoken to him.

"Ma'am," he recovers quickly. "Would you care to join me?"

"It's 'Lieutenant'," she corrects absently, assessing him out of the corner of her eye as she collects her cutlery. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

A spark of irritation flares at her sarcasm, before it's tamped down immediately. He moves his tray along and shrugs. "We should have said something at the end," he replies simply.

She raises an eyebrow and inclines her head towards the expansive windows on the side. He follows, taking note of the empty seats in the far corner, and trying to ignore the curious gazes of the agents in the hall. She looks back at him and catches his slight discomfort, smirking slightly. "Would have thought you'd be used to this."

"Not quite the same," he admits. He looks around again; their table is isolated enough to be away from prying ears, but close enough to at least pretend to be communally functional. Perfectly placed, in his opinion.

"Is this table normally free?" He asks, genuinely interested and trying to determine the dynamics of the people in this strange new world.

"It's not a restaurant. Nor a social caste system, despite the rankings," she says, a shadow passing over her face. "But yes, Coulson and I would sit here."

The sucker punch makes the bottom of his stomach fall. "I…"

She cuts in bluntly. "Why are you here, Captain?"

There is a pause. "We just left," he says, with an ounce of dissatisfaction. "And we were _okay_ with it. Agent Romanoff even sent me a message to tell me to have fun."

Her face is impassive. "Fury thought you all deserved a break."

"It's not how it should be. We should have done something, or said something at least," he repeats.

"You saved Manhattan from a bunch of flying alien exoskeletons, and the world from an egotistical demi-god with golden horns. I think that says enough."

"Then you should have told us to stay, to help clean up."

"You're not soldiers anymore," she says, not unkindly. "And you're not leading a team of soldiers either, or agents for that matter. The Avengers are much better and much worse than that."

He stabs his potato. "But—"

She slices her potato neatly. "There are lines, Captain. As obvious as it may seem, S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't operate in the public sphere; you clearly do. We don't own you, nor control you, and you are not a subset of this agency." She looks him in the eye and finishes calmly, "So, think of this as a partnership of sorts: you guys can keep saving the world or dealing with whatever vaudeville alien comes next, and we'll be happy with the behind-the-scenes work."

"And Agents Barton and Romanoff?" He challenges, skewering the unrecognisable piece of meat next, but still maintaining eye contact.

Her mouth quirks up a fraction, pieces falling into place. "What do you want, Rogers?"

"I don't know." He stares at his plate, before turning to look out the window and back at her. "I don't know what Tony or Bruce do, or where they are. I didn't even know that there could be other worlds out there. But S.H.I.E.L.D…."

"It won't be the same," she says quietly. "It might come close, or even resemble what you had back in the day, but it won't be the same. It's not black and white anymore, but I think you already know that."

He thinks for a few minutes, and she doesn't say another word. When he looks at her again, his mouth is set. "I don't have anywhere else."

She shakes her head. "There's always a choice. Maybe hard to see, maybe silent, but always there. Don't let anyone here tell you otherwise." Her eyes harden against something or someone that he can't figure out, and he wonders whether anyone still doubts the competency of women in work such as theirs.

"Okay," he nods slowly in understanding at her warning. "Okay. Count me in, then."

She gives him a brief smile, a flash of lightning. "Welcome aboard, Captain."


	2. legacy

**a/n**: i've decided that this will be set chronologically; the first chapter was set post-_Avengers_, and I'm planning to end this fic sometime before _The Winter Soldier_.

* * *

**upon cracked and narrowed streets**

* * *

**ii. legacy**

"Another round?"

Steve looks up from his position on the mat to the slight figure towering above him, eyeing the proffered hand with a healthy amount of wariness.

"How the hell did you do that… thing?" He shakes his head ruefully, ignoring the hand and choosing to stand on his own accord.

"Smart move. First time I did that to Barton, he ended up with ass handed to him for another five minutes," Natasha smirks. "And to answer your first question – if I tell you, I'd have to kill you."

"Of course," he mutters. "That sounds about right."

She shrugs. "Sitwell and Hill told me to devise a training program—"

"—Wait, _you_ planned all of this?—"

"—Though I'm really not sure why I'm being punished; it's not like those Feds were getting anything done anyway," she mutters under her breath. "But yes, _I_ devised this. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't interested in telling you how to fight, so you don't need _me_ to tell you how to fight. Do whatever works for you, Rogers. That's the point."

"Well then, I'm asking as someone who respects their opponent," he says, adding with a slight frown. "And I thought we were part of a team?"

Natasha gives him a slow nod, reaching for the tablet resting on her bag and pulling up her messily created schedule. "Tomorrow," she says, scrawling a signature. "God, I'd never thought I'd have to do one of these."

Steve peers over her shoulder. "I thought all senior agents were rostered on at some stage?"

"That was Jasper's initiative," she snorts. "But apparently, no one wants the Black Widow to train new S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits."

"That's a shame," he remarks, taking a drink out of his bottle.

"Do you blame them?" She asks him with a challenge in her eye.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "But why you and why now?"

"Told you. Last op in California went too successfully, and we're not allowed to beat the Feds at their own game."

"It's not just your punishment though, is it?"

She looks at him oddly for a moment. "Come on, I've got to get a file to Hill," she says, choosing to ignore his question.

He follows her out of the gym and through the levels of the helicarrier, ending up at a door in a line of at least twenty other doors; non-descript with no name, and the blinds drawn over the windows. Without knocking, Natasha strides in brandishing her file.

"The Puerto Rico brief for next week," she says, placing it on the small mountain of paper to her left and promptly taking a seat in front of the agent.

"Sure Romanoff, come in and make yourself at home," Hill says sarcastically, eyes remaining fixed on her screen.

"You know I never knock," Nat shrugs as she picks up the stapler, trying to find a way to weaponise it. "Barton's off in Malta and you have me _educating_ Captain America. What did you expect?"

Rolling her eyes, Maria glances up and waves a hand at the other seat in front of her. "Have a seat, Captain."

Steve sits and looks curiously at the stack of files on the almost-pristine desk. "You still use paper?"

"Of course," she replies, dry as a desert. "It's probably harder for Stark to hack, wouldn't you say?"

He winces at that. "I mean, I thought there'd be more efficient ways, you know, with computers and everything now."

"Some things are still easier to do the long way," she says. "And old-fashioned isn't necessarily a bad thing."

"That's what Agent Coulson said," he says, subdued, seeing a similar flash in Natasha's eyes and the suddenly drawn expression on Hill's face. He bites his tongue and sits on the edge of his seat awkwardly, watching in silence as she turns her attention back to her computer, as Natasha continues to tamper with the objects lying innocently on the desk.

She puts the stapler down, modifications made. "There's an extra spring and pin on the side. Pull the pin and it's primed for staples to fire out the back."

Maria sighs, "Thanks, but you do know that there are more than enough weapons on this carrier _and_ in my office already, right?"

"It was fun," she says nonchalantly, now reaching for the paper clips. "Also, stationery aside, we're here because Rogers wants to know why you assigned me to his training. And I'm not talking about what happened in L.A. either."

She stares at the pair in front of her. "I wasn't going to put you in the Academy, or with the usual trainers. I'd have thought that was obvious."

"Enlighten me," Steve says tightly.

"Putting _Captain America_ with a bunch of starry-eyed recruits? Nothing would get done," she says with disbelief. "Or with veteran S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who think you're out of your time, and that the idea of superheroes is fucking insane?"

He lets it sink in. "Is that what _you_ think?"

Natasha's eyes glance up from her half-made paper clip sculpture of a dragonfly, swivelling her head back and forth between the intense staring match happening across the sides of the desk. She finally settles on her friend's face, daring her to say something, to explain.

"Yes and no," Maria says after another pause. "I don't doubt your abilities as a soldier or a leader, Rogers. But you want to join S.H.I.E.L.D.? There are rules, beliefs, attitudes already entrenched; so you need to wind your way around them if you want to force them away from a better position."

"Surely it's better to face them head-on?" He asks, doubt in his question.

"This is S.H.I.E.L.D., Captain," she reminds him. "Not the Avengers."

And he looks at her again, sees the weariness and determination battling for control in her eyes. He's suddenly struck by the similarity – _he's seen this before_ –

"You remind me of someone," he says abruptly.

She smiles, humourless. "Not something I hear every day."

Natasha sets down the completed dragonfly, gets up to walk over and lean against the filing cabinets. She sweeps her eyes across the room, occasionally flipping open a file and closing it again. "It's true, Cap. S.H.I.E.L.D. is all about being sneaky," she adds, blatantly examining the activity on Hill's computer.

Maria minimises some of the screens, looking pointedly at Romanoff. Natasha smirks and returns to rifling through a particularly dusty cabinet. Steve opens his mouth to protest, but is cut short by the minute shake of the head he gets from Hill.

"Don't bother," she murmurs.

He comments wryly, "Pick your battles, huh?"

"Always," she agrees, eyes flicking back to her work.

Steve sits back and observes, noting the clinical precision of her movements and the perfected blank expression. _Soldier, spy, soldier, spy, soldier, spy_ – the echoes resonate around in his head; to be either, or both at the same time, or even not at all. He's seen first-hand (so many years ago, god it's been _so long_) the different sides, the different faces of both; comrades, friends with inconsequential titles.

A question springs to mind, hazily pulled from the very edges of his mind. "Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have a theoretical physics department?"

"What?"

He chews his lip. "If you had a time machine, where would you go?"

That gets her attention, and she stares at him, confused with the non-sequitur. "God, don't tell me Banner and Stark are attempting to build one right now."

"No, it's just a hypothetical," he assures her, looking to Natasha – who suddenly looks intrigued – for support.

"Why are you asking?"

"It's an interesting concept. Howard and the other scientists, they'd always theorise, you know. And no-one really understood back then," he explains with a shrug. At her raised eyebrow, he adds simply, "Also, I've missed out on a lot."

"Yes, we have a theoretical physics department. No, we don't have a time machine, nor do we devote our resources to that particular endeavour," she says, unsuccessfully trying to plan next week's twenty-man mission in Australia.

"You didn't answer the question," Natasha speaks up from her corner, receiving a glare in return.

"Since when are you interested in my time-travelling preferences, Romanoff?"

"We never got around to doing lightning rounds when we met," Natasha shoots back.

"Fine," Maria says, exasperated and resigned to the fact that she's not going to get anything done in the next half an hour. "I'd go back and stop the _Star Wars_ prequels from being made," she says somewhat flippantly.

Steve looks incredulous. "All of time and history?"

"She has a point," Natasha frowns. "We have a duty to stop atrocities before they occur."

"_All_ of time and history," Steve repeats, feeling slightly insulted. "You could go anywhere, to anytime. I mean, the things you could witness, experience, the people you could meet or see again…"

Maria stills, ignores Natasha's wary curiosity, and replies evenly, "History stays in the past; learn from it and move on. Nothing matters, except for now and the near future."

It's Steve's turn to frown. "That's…"

"Indulgent," Natasha supplies suddenly. "Practical, but still indulgent."

"Different people, different places, Romanoff," says Maria. "You of all people should know that."

"No one should get to pick and choose, or to simply _forget_," Natasha says with a tinge of bitterness, and with the knowledge and burden of things lost forever. Across from her, Steve inclines his head in silent agreement.

"You're absolutely right," Maria fires back calmly. "But everyone gets a chance to make of it what they will. You can't deny that from them."

Steve stares unseeingly at the dragonfly, and tries to understand. And it's true – he can't deny choice, would never dream of standing in the way of freedom. But at the same time…

"What about the future, then? You work for S.H.I.E.L.D.; you can't _not_ care about what happens."

"Right again," she nods. "But it's foolish to pretend that humanity and the world isn't as fucked up as it already is. To make the world a better place means stopping it from getting worse. We protect what we have _now_; there is no ambitious grand plan that makes it better, that won't somehow backfire on us all."

"But pre-emptively—"

"—In terms of global peace and protection, that never works out well," Maria cuts in.

Natasha grins suddenly. "Good to know that cynics still exist."

"Speak for yourself, Nat," she mutters. "We can be the presidents of the fucking club."

"So you wouldn't go anywhere, to anytime?" Steve asks again, interrupting and determined to _know_.

"Why do you care, Captain?" Maria trains her grey eyes on his, and Natasha picks up an old file, discreetly reads it and pretends not to notice.

(_because you remind me of—because i want to know what i've missed—because—because peg—_)

"I want to know who I'm working with," he answers finally.

"Okay. Hope we passed." She gives him a considered nod and exhales. "So, will that be all? I've got a shitload of work that won't finish itself," she adds sardonically.

He stands, recognising a cue to leave, and arches a brow at his companion. Natasha closes the file and slots it back into the cabinet drawer, throwing Maria a mysterious look as she walks out silently. He follows, giving her one last glance and polite nod, and shuts the door with a soft click.

.

And later that night, he arrives back to his quarters (bruised and heavy with his bag slung over his shoulder) to find a rectangular package wrapped with last week's newspaper lying just inside his door. He unwraps it with tired calloused fingers, easing the tape off the worn paper, surprised to see a veritable tome hidden underneath.

_The Complete and Unabridged History of S.H.I.E.L.D. (1940 – 2010)_

Opening the book, he smiles at the familiarity of slightly yellowed pages and stoops down to pick up the note that's fallen out.

_Thought you might be interested; this is the latest edition we have. Yes, books are still a thing – perhaps this is more feasible than a time machine._

_ – M._

(He starts at the very beginning, feels his chest swell with pride at the foundation of the organisation, feels the ache at the familiar names.

His fingers absent-mindedly trace over the written letters as he reads well into the night.)


End file.
